When the Wind Comes Right Behind the Rain
by ficing.insane
Summary: The press bus is broken. And too small. But right now, the 'broken' part is winning. CJ & Danny. Title from "Oklahoma" -yes, the one you're thinking of.


Title: When the Wind Comes Right Behind the Rain

_Characters:_ CJ Cregg, Danny Concannon

_Rating:_ PG

_Notes:_ Late Season 1, maybe Season 2? Title from _Oklahoma_

_Disclaimer:_ All credit goes to Sorkin, Wells, & NBC/Warner Bros.

* * *

The press bus is broken. And too small. But right now, the 'broken' part is winning. CJ groans, mashing her right temple against one of the circa-1950 concrete columns that line the hallway of the library they've been stranded in. The they consists of her, Carol, and twelve reporters, all of them at varying degrees of dampness. Much to her chagrin/woe/general luck, she's in the lead for 'most qualified to enter a wet T-shirt contest'. It'd be more like a 'wet Donna Karen' contest, though, and somehow that makes it all the more offensive.

"That was some fire back there, huh?"

CJ squeezed her eyes shut, pushing her head even harder against the column. Looks like her luck was about to win out again.

"It wasn't a fire-fire. Just a small conflagration."

"You really gonna try to spin that? Might want to bear in mind that there were ten-plus people with notebooks and, you know, eyes, in the back of the bus with you there."

"They're working on stories already, aren't they? Oh, god." There's a whine in her voice that she doesn't even bother to hide, choosing instead to retreat further back into the library, which is huge, by the way, for some -where are they? oh, whatever –prairie town. She can tell Danny's following her, so she veers off through a set of glass doors that lead to the main set of stacks. If he wants to talk, he'll have to whisper. Hah. Score one for her.

Except not, cause Danny isn't talking. Instead, he's staring at a bronze bust of some bearded, balding guy who looks way too much like Toby for her taste. She stops walking to watch what he's about to do. One arm comes up, and his hand, curled into a fist, knocks on Mr. Beard's forehead. It's a hollow sound, not at all metallic like she'd figured it'd be, and suddenly Danny's grinning at her.

"This is plaster. Somebody painted it to look-"

"-Look like it's actually worth something."

"Yeah." He's still smiling, and now she is too. Not at the plaster, though. She's smiling, actually, wait, laughing –she's laughing now –at the 'observe my investigatory prowess' face he's got on. That and the half-dry curls that're either frizzing out or sticking to his forehead. She notices, for the first time, that he's had about as much luck with the rain as she did. His suit jacket's all dappled, and there are these huge, wet patches on his shirtfront where it looks like he dried off his hands.

"Come here."

"What?" Well, that got his eyebrows up. And hers, too. 'Come here?' What was she thinking, what was she saying?

"Get over here." Right, well. She was saying that, apparently. And meaning it.

"Okay." Danny walked over, got within about an arm's length of her, and stopped. "I'm here?"

"Yeah. You are."

And then he was even closer because, without really intending to, CJ grabbed him by the tie and jacket collar and, as she was often prone to do in this particular situation, kissed him as hard as she could. She thought she'd heard Danny squeak, which would've been manly and worthy of so much tormenting, until she realized that, in all likelihood, the noise had probably been her fault, a product of his hands grabbing her hips and backing her up against a nearby bookshelf.

Next CJ new, she and Danny had separated to catch their breath. She let him keep pressing her into the bookshelf, even though it was murder on her back, because she liked how his head felt even more reassuring against her temple than the column had.

"I thought we weren't doing that anymore."

"In my office. Or your cubicle-thing."

"My fortress of journalistic prowess." She would've pushed him away for that, but his word choice made her smile.

"Yeah, whatever."

"So, for my sake," he began, letting his thumb nudge aside her wet jacket so that it could rub against her blouse, "We're not doing this in the White House, but Oklahoma libraries are okay?"

Oklahoma. That's where they were. How could she forget, with all the wind-sweeping-cross-the-plains that she'd been subjected to on Air Force One.

"It would seem that they are, yes." She bit her lip, waiting for the question that was bound to come next. 'If Oklahoma libraries are okay, then how about my place? Or your place? Or the bathroom of that yogurt shop you like?'

But he surprised her by nodding and saying, "That makes sense." There was a short pause, then: "So, how long do you think we've got till the bus gets fixed."

"Not sure. Guy named Max said an hour, but I think Phil was right when he guessed closer to two."

"Hmm. Lot of time to pass."

"Yeah."

"Wanna go find a book to read?"

"Not really."

"Me neither."


End file.
